


Marco Bodt Week

by Saphruikan



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Marco Bodt Week, all kinds of shit B))), dichotomy, naga!marco, we got some gay shit we got some angsty shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3845044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphruikan/pseuds/Saphruikan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A complication of things I wrote for Marco Bodt Week! Some of it is some generic modern AU, and some of it is related to Dichotomy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Precious Cinnamon Bun

**April 27: Precious Cinnamon Bun**

It’s way past sunrise, the blankets have become a bit too stifling for those with normal body temperatures, Ymir hasn’t yet rolled out of the bed to make breakfast and is instead sprawled along the lip of the bed making dying animal noises, and I’m too tired to even consider rational thought. But then, I see it.

The bed rustles and shifts in several places as rising shakily from the depths of his own sheets comes Marco, his favorite blanket draped around his body and hanging over his head like a hood, obscuring his eyes and revealing only his softly yawning mouth. His fangs flick out for a second or two before folding back into the roof of his mouth, and a little squeaking noise comes out of his throat. He pouts, tilting his head back sleepily to squint at me with puffy eyes. “What the fuck,” I say loudly.

“Wha,” Ymir grunts.

“What the fuck,” I repeat, pointing at Marco.

“Wha?” Ymir whines, rolling over to look at what’s bothering me, then, upon seeing her brother, immediately understands and parrots, “What the fuck.”

“What the _fuck.”_

Marco makes a noise of confused distress, looking between us, clearly pleading to know what’s wrong. “That’s goddamn unfair,” I mutter helpfully, though Marco clearly doesn’t find it helpful; he starts wriggling toward me, trying to slither even on his human stomach and keep the blanket wrapped around his torso at the same time, extreme displeasure on his face.

“It’s too early for this,” he grumbles, faceplanting on my knees. “Wha’m I doin’ wrong.”

“Nothing. You’re just fuckin’ adorable, and you need to stop because you’re making me, naturally the most adorable person in the room, look bad.”

Marco utters this sound that could be “Stoooop,” long and drawn out and whiny, if it isn’t wailed against my thigh. “No,” I insist. “Even Ymir agrees. Ymir, is this not the cutest little fuck you’ve ever seen?”

“Yeah, god, he’s delectable.”

“Stop iiiiit,” Marco insists again, rolling off of my lap to flop back onto the bed, throwing his arm dramatically over his eyes. “I’m not cuuuute.”

“You’re precious, baby,” Ymir tells him. “Lookit your little face.”

_“Nooooo.”_

I yawn, making a really obnoxious noise, then flop over onto Marco’s stomach. “You can’t fight the facts, Marco.”

Marco grumbles something into his arm and I sit up immediately. “Marco, I swear to god, if you just said, ‘You’re pretty cute for a horseface,’ I’m gonna fuckin’ eat you.” 

His ribs jump as he giggles, peering up at me from under his arm. “What if I _want_ you to?”

“Wh- _whoa._ Okay. It’s too early for this bullshit.”

“Jeaaaan.”

“No, ssh. I call you cute, you insult my natural handsomeness, you make extremely inappropriate insinuations, Ymir’s over there jackin’ off or something instead of making us _food-“_

“Oh my god, I’m not your butler,” she gripes. 

“No, but you’re the adult here, so feed us.”

“Feed ussss.”

_“Feeeeeed uuuussss.”_

“I’m only making enough for Marco because he’s the cute one.”

“HEY!”


	2. Family

**April 28: Family**

There’s not much a three year old can properly comprehend, and the adults only had to tell Ymir this once, though their attempts to make her understand that toddlers are only beginning to function usefully was translated by her five-year-old mind into _stupid_ , this kid is a _stupid baby,_ and everything he does is a _hindrance_ by a _stupid baby._ His very existence seems intended to cause her mishap, or at least worry her relentlessly, and it’s a mentality that sticks around for years. He sticks his hands into holes in the ground and waddles under tables and into water and wanders into the very homes of strangers, aimless and blissfully trusting, reaching for every hand that passes and flashing his gummy mouth at every proper smile directed his way. 

But Marco is _her_ stupid baby, and that gives her the unspoken task of being his guardian angel, whatever that means. She has to be there to pry his fingers apart from around the squished spider and hush his reedy voice and pull him back when his fat feet carry him into the path of a wagon, which happens at least once a week, enough for every wagon driver to know their road on an intimate level for fear of the little Bodt who might find his way beneath their wheels. 

And Ymir isn’t stupid. She knows math, and she can write her name in two languages, and she knows that you can get stuff for money like food and flowers and new shoes when the old ones wear out and even people too. She knows it takes two people to make a new person and they mix together like paint and that’s why her skin looks like a mix between Mommy’s darkness and Daddy’s paleness and Marco’s does too. She knows her parents are fine with her being around Marco more than they are, not because they don’t love their children, but because sometimes Mommy needs a break from following them around and writing on her papers, and Daddy is sometimes gone for one, maybe two days, and he comes back exhausted and smelling like blood, telling them he’s helping people have babies (more stupid babies) and he needs to sleep, so it’s fine. She’s fine with Marco loving her the most, too. She’s fine with Daddy getting rest; she’s fine with Mommy taking breaks. He’s hers, and theirs too. She wants to take care of them. She loves them. 

even when her mother’s bones taste like rust

It’s her admonishing voice that calls him home at night, and her soothing tones that encourage him to eat this, don’t put that in your mouth, let go of that, don’t touch that, stupid, stupid senseless baby, listen to me stupid baby because you don’t know anything and I know everything, or at least I have to because I want to because I can’t explain why I love you so much. He sits and absorbs her words and squeaks _I love you too_ and she wonders if he’s even smart enough for that. How can he not be, though? It’s her hand that he holds when they need to cross the street or mill about the marketplace; it’s her steps he follows when they fly across the beach, kicking hot sand in grainy arcs across the air by her graceful feet and his clumsy ones, laughing and yelling, their voices bouncing over frothy waves and across grassy dunes. He uses her arm as a pillow every night in the exact same spot, just behind the elbow, and grumbles and whines when she moves.

Maybe the fact that he loves her is _all_ he knows for now, until his stupid baby brain learns more, and he shows it with his fat little hands finding hers whenever she’s near, and looking up into the eyes they share to squeak about his fanciful, mystical day where _this_ girl kissed _this_ girl and he gave “Dazzy” his doll but he never gave it back but that’s fine because he has lots more, and there was a bug on the ground and a bird swooped down and ate it because it needs to feed its birdy babies but what if the bug had babies too, Ymir? Are they gonna miss it? Of course they will, Marco, babies always miss their parents no matter how old they are, no matter what happens, no matter where they go.

Even if it’s north, farther north than they’ve ever been, where snow falls and it actually sticks and it blankets the ground in thick layers, and the people have hard eyes and harder faces and voices that aren’t gentle enough to make either of them feel safe. Even then, Marco.

Even then. Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know anymore. Why did we end up here, Marco? Can you answer me that, little baby, with that vanished voice of yours? How did they let us leave so easily, to places we’ve never heard of, among people we’ve never met? Maybe if you had listened to me, baby. Maybe if you weren’t so trusting, hadn’t wandered so far from home. Do you think they’d still love us if we went back, Marco? When you bleed from your eyes and your mouth and your waist, when you rip your own skin off as you wake up from dreams you shouldn’t have, when you can’t even talk anymore like you traded your voice for a body you didn’t want, would they still want us? 

It’s all right, though. It’s fine. Stupid little baby, seven years old and he can’t even speak, can’t do anything but sit and stare and bleed and cry, but he’s hers. If she has to be Mommy and Daddy because they’re gone

tried to break his ribs, tried to break him open, turned on their own child, perversion, perversion

That’s fine. It’s fine. Ymir can be both. She can be both mother and father, and sister too, and they can be like they were when they were so small, when Marco was too stupid to speak like her and know math like her and know not to wander. She knows a lot more by now and she needs to learn more and she stays up all night reading books about the thing attached to him to understand, to provide, to sustain, and be everything he needs because he’s hers. _Hers._

And no one else’s.


	3. Love is in the Air (Ships!)

**April 29: Love is in the Air (Ships!)**

The buzzing of Jean’s phone alarm is what eventually drags him out of a contented sleep, and before he’s awake enough to realize what he’s doing the thing is in his hand, his thumb automatically unlocking it, even as his gummy eyes are laden with exhaustion enough to force them shut but for a squint. Shit, it’s two in the afternoon already? When’s the last time he woke up in the a.m.?

Convinced his bed is the most comfortable it’s ever been in his entire life, he sleepily contemplates the cracks of light in his spine, the floaty balloon that is his stomach, unusually aroused at such an early (it’s two in the afternoon) hour, wondering what exactly is causing such a reaction. Eventually his heart nearly stops as he remembers.

Last night was a conversation of immense importance. Last night was  _pivotal._

Jean Kirschtein is no longer single.

The weights lift from his eyes and his heavy neck as he wriggles into a more comfortable position and studies his phone with new life. Steadfastly he avoids the Messages icon on his home screen, afraid to face the words he spoke before falling asleep; instead he opens up Twitter to smile dopily at the night owls and early birds who clogged up his feed screaming about anime or posting selfies, all of which he likes, and when he runs out of distractions from that he scurries to Yik Yak to kill his faith in the coming generations of human beings, and when that’s done he flees to Candy Crush, swiftly losing all of his lives because he fucking sucks at that game. And so he’s left with nothing.

Desperately he escapes to Twitter again, distracting himself with tweets that sprang up during his failed gaming session, and his thumb freezes in its scrolling as he sees an icon he recognizes instantly. Immediately he flicks his thumb downward, letting the tweet be buried by countless others, too afraid to even read what it says. So he’s awake. What is it, an announcement? They never talked about that. Is Jean all right with that? He’s not sure he is. Sure, it gets the ordeal over with, but he still would’ve liked a word of warning, or a confirmation that he approves beforehand. Oh, he’s hyping himself up before he even knows what was said.

Gritting his teeth, he slowly drags his thumb up, hauling the offending tweet into view; he huffs out a sigh of relief as he sees it’s only about homework and final exams. He runs through his feed again to hunt for any other tweets by that same icon, and when his search turns up empty he locks his phone and lets it drop to his chest, huffing out a breath and closing his eyes.

Sooner or later he’s going to have to reread those messages, relive that phone call.

A violent buzz from his phone decides it for him; he clicks the home button and his heart plummets as he sees Marco’s name flash across the screen.

He’s fucked.

Swallowing, he taps Marco’s name and swipes the screen, bracing himself for what he might see.

**From: Marco  
** **> Good morning! ;]  
** **> Are you awake?**

Well now he sure is.

What the fuck does he  _say?_  After what they shared last night? After what they established? How do you do this?

**To: Marco  
** **> yes mornng i, up**

Smooth.

Marco replies within ten seconds. Typical.

**From: Marco  
** **> ;)  
** **> So, how was your nap**

**To: Marco  
** **> it was nice**

He’s not texting Marco like he normally would. How can he? After the two of them stayed up until five in the morning confessing to each other that they were both in love with one another? Over  _text?_  Admittedly, Jean called Marco exactly one minute and sixteen seconds after sending the fateful text, the  ** _ive been in love with you ever since i met you_** when Marco’s reply never came and he panicked, only to hear Marco pick up with a tremulous, terrified voice demanding to know if he was messing around or not (he wasn’t, he so wasn’t), and then they both wholly, utterly, completely broke down to each other, and now-

**From: Marco  
** **> got any plans for today?**

**To: Marco  
** **> nah**

Marco doesn’t reply to that and Jean doesn’t blame him. What a stupid fucking response. “Nah”?  _“Nah”?_ That’s _it?_  Marco deserves far more than that. Marco deserves monologues, soliloquies, tributes to his every mood and feature, from his pretty mud-colored eyes to his big broad smile to his impenetrable goddamn perceptiveness to his careful, calm patience- just every aspect of his beautiful selfless soul. Jean wants to tell him everything, every little nervous tic he notices and every little gesture Marco does for him that just makes him fall in love harder, deeper, even though he said it all and more last night.

But his fingers find no keys; they’re frozen, stuck to each other, and refuse to type out the words. His inability to do anything is making this massively awkward, he  _knows_  it, he can  _feel_  it, but he just can’t do it anyway.

His phone vibrates.

**From: Marco  
** **> So hey what an awfully big elephant in this room, huh**

It’s like Marco opened the floodgates. Jean’s fingers, mobilized, tap in rapid, thudding succession, nearly unceasing.

**To: Marco  
** **> oh my god im so sorry  
** **> im so bad at this  
** **> i have no idea what im doiNG  
** **> idk how to act and talk to u and shit now ugh**

**From: Marco  
** **> Jean it’s okay!  
** **> Look, we only you know last night  
** **> Like less than 12 hours ago  
** **> We’re both going to be weird about this at first, so don’t worry**

It’s true; they only “you know”’d a very short time ago, and Jean can’t be expected to know everything, know instantly how to navigate the nuances of a relationship. He can learn, though.

**From: Marco  
** **> Do you regret anything you said last night?**

**To: Marco  
** **> GOD NO jesus  
** **> im just  
** **> hot mess  
** **> hottest mess  
** **> and im just anxious and shit  
** **> so i guess like how do i act  
** **> how do you want me to act  
** **> around you i mean**

**From: Marco  
** **> Jean I don’t want you to change a thing about yourself  
** **> Talk to me like you would any other day**

**To: Marco  
** **> ok  
** **> fuckin nerd  
** **> weeb  
** **> loser  
** **> piece of gum on the bottom of my shoe**

**From: Marco  
** **> Hey that’s mean  
** **> You know I’m sensitive about gum  
** **> I got**

**To: Marco  
** **> dont**

**From: Marco  
** **> gingivitis  
** **> B)**

Jean’s cheeks ache now with a smile, and he lets his phone drop into his face, wiggling his toes, butterflies whirling in his stomach, their soft wingbeats clearing up the anxious cloud in his gut. He gets to call this guy  _his_ now, after all this time. He can do this.

**To: Marco  
** **> hey so uh what are we  
** **> ShIT  
** **> GOD THAT WAS SO CLICHE**

**From: Marco  
** **> omg**

**To: Marco  
** **> JESUS FKCU  
** **> im serious tho wat are we  
** **> like what do i call you  
** **> marco  
** **> mr bodt  
** **> boyfriend  
** **> extraterrestrial**

**From: Marco  
** **> omg jean**

**To: Marco  
** **> wranglin parner  
** **> cohort  
** **> partner in crime**

**From: Marco  
** **> Boyfriend sounds good  
** **> Sounds really nice, actually**

**To: Marco  
** **> yeah but so does partner in crime**

**From: Marco  
** **> What’s our crime?**

**To: Marco  
** **> bein fuckin gay as shit**

**From: Marco  
** **> We’re so guilty  
** **> To jail we go**

Yes, this he can do. This is the Marco he’s hopelessly in love with, his partner-in-crime, his  _boyfriend,_  not some unattainable entity anymore, just his best friend in the whole world who he can mess around with and  _kiss_  now.

**From: Marco  
** **> Wanna call?**

**To: Jean  
** **> hell yeah**

As Jean hits the call button, grinning, he knows exactly what to say.


	4. Holiday

**April 30: Holiday**

When Marco finally emerges from the dark forest, he does so in confusion, and I don’t blame him. It’s a hot, muggy summer night on a Sunday, not our regular Wednesday early morning, and the question is plain on his face. “Hey, loser,” he greets when I stand up from the log and close the distance between us. “What’re you doing here?” His pink snake tongue flicks out and stays out, waving stiffly up and down, before zipping back into his mouth. “You smell like salt and meat.”

“Do I smell like  _good_  meat? ‘Cause that’s probably my dick you’re smelling,” I tease, and he rolls his eyes. “Nah, I brought food for you. Can I sleep over tonight?”

“Will your parents worry? Didn’t they worry last time? This is an awfully late night to come, but okay!”

“Yeah, but that was just a normal day, and they’re still convinced Ymir’s gonna take all my money or something. They probably just think I’m at someone else’s house sleeping over.”

Marco’s distracted by me again, as his tongue keeps flitting out to taste me, his nose wrinkled in confusion. “You smell like so many different people,” he says quietly between licks at the air, “and their sweat, and alcohol … I don’t understand. Was there another execution?”

“You- wait, you haven’t seen Trost at all? All day, I mean?”

“No, I haven’t been high enough. Why?”

I wrap an arm around his shoulders, tugging him after me. “Then let me show you something.”

Marco yawns frequently as we trek through the woods toward his hill; clearly he’d been settling down for the night when my whistle sounded. I lead him up to a reasonable distance on the hill and hunker down on a relatively level portion of the path, patting the cool sand beneath me in invitation. Marco writhes around a bit until his body is wrapped around and over me enough to satisfy him, pretty much snugly immobilizing me, hunkering down by my side facing the forest below us; abruptly he flies six feet back into the air again, gazing down at the valley. “What’s that?”

“That,” I say, patting a vertical part of his scaly back, “is Trost.”

“Why’s it so bright?” he demands, his coils sliding smoothly around me to feed his ascending torso as he tries to get a better view of my town. At this point Trost should be dark save for a few lights, certainly nothing visible from this distance. But tonight it’s like Trost is on fire, aglow from what I know to be torches and multicolored lanterns and innumerable cooking fires, a visible, dense cluster of light in the middle of dark forest. The lights are most intense in the middle, where I know the village square to be and the celebration is most focused.

“What’s going on?” Marco asks me, descending back to my level to lean heavily against my side; when I look at him I almost see Trost’s reflection in his dark eyes. “There isn’t a fire, is there?”

“Naw, it’s just the summer solstice. Everyone’s out havin’ a party. Here, I don’t know if you’re hungry, but I brought you some stuff to eat. I can help you eat it all if you can’t finish … I’m kinda hungry now …” I take a still-warm package out of my bag and start unwrapping it; Marco tears his gaze away from Trost to lean his head on my shoulder, peering down at what I brought. “Nosy,” I admonish him, and set the food on my lap.

His tongue flicks out a few times, then his nose wrinkles. “What is  _that?”_

“Summer spices,” I inform him with satisfaction. “We only ever use them during the solstice. I don’t remember all their names. Here, we’ve got some … fried zucchini, potatoes, broiled chicken … I tried to sneak away some desserts too but I only got away with a cherry pie- do you like cherries? I don’t remember.”

“I do! What’s the solstice? I think you’ve told me about it before, but I don’t remember too well.”

“Okay, good, otherwise I’d have to eat that and I hate cherries. Oh! I also got these little strawberry pastry thingies, I  _know_  you love those. And this thing!” I tear out of my bag something I  _really_  hope I didn’t break or some shit: a firm, woven circlet of smooth twigs, held together by strong twine; dangling from it are about a dozen of small, pearly tines from the antler of a buck, as well as little cloth bags stuffed with deer fur.

“Is that a crown? It’s too big,” Marco says blankly, then shies his head away when I make to put it over his head.

“Oh no, it’s okay! It’s a ceremonial neckpiece. Everyone wears one on the summer solstice. It’s supposed to have parts from your best kills of the year, you know? This one’s mine - I just got it today - because I bring home deer most of all, and that one buck I got was the best one.” I turn the ornament around in my hands before him, showing off its craftsmanship with a little gush of warmth in my chest. “Well,  _you_ got, but no one knows that. Your family and friends steal little bits of your catches and make these neckpieces over the year and then give them to you on the solstice. It’s kind of like a game, the stealing. Like, me, I stole some of the claws when Thomas helped take down this mountain lion last fall, and then we, my mom and dad and I, we incorporated that into his neckpiece, and then we gave it to him today. It’s like a congratulations. You get it?”

“That’s really interesting,” Marco says, his attention rapt; he inspects the neckpiece with polite flicks of his tongue. “Can I see it?”

“Sure.” I hand it to him and he holds it reverently, as if it’s a newborn, slowly turning it over and running a finger through the dangling tines.

“We celebrate the solstices and the equinoxes,” I tell him as I wriggle around to get more comfortable. “The summer is for celebrating all the things we did throughout the year. It’s a celebration of personal achievement. We cook up a big feast for everyone, have dances, have some ceremonies, like the one where we reveal the neckpieces and a few others. The party usually lasts until tomorrow morning. One year,” I remember with a laugh, “when I was pretty little, one year it went on for, like, four days. People were making a joke of seeing how long they could make it last, I guess. Eventually everyone got tired … plus, well, we were running out of surplus food. Everyone hunted for days after that, it was awesome.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Hah?”

Marco looks up at me, perplexed. “Why are you here? You should be out celebrating, Jean! If the party lasts all night, you can’t sleep over all the way out  _here._ You’ve got to stay up and party.”

“Ehh, I was out there all day. The important stuff’s over. I snuck out as soon as I could.”

“But …”

I gently take the neckpiece from his hands; he doesn’t move his head away when I place it around his neck this time. “But nothing. You don’t have anyone to celebrate with.”

“This is yours,” he protests.

“No, it’s  _yours._ You know I never catch shit. I’m not even learning anymore, so that’s not going to change in the future at all. You earned this.”

Marco picks at the neckpiece with anxious fingers, rotating it around his neck and studying all the pieces of it; with his head bowed I can’t discern his expression. Then he rests his hands on his lap and flops over onto my shoulder, careful to keep the neckpiece from being caught between us. “Thank you,” he mumbles into my shirt.

I ruffle his hair, leaning my head against his with a grin. “‘Course, buddy. Come on, help me eat this food. I almost got caught stealing this for you- and that kind of stealing is _not_  a game, let me tell you.”


	5. Letters

**May 1: Letters**

_Thursday_

_Hey marco so I had an idea and i dont know how much it will help but i figurd i we culd give it a shot. i had an idea that i can rite you a leter evry day and then give you them wen i see you and then you reed them once a day so you reed this one today and then secund one tomorow and the third one after that you get it? I gues when i see you next you can tel me if this is a bad idea or not._

_You probably saw it but today was kinda cloudy. i stayed inside al day and drew Cane and Thomas and Im actualy proud of how it turnd out Ill show you when i see you. Im trying to think of what else to draw right now but its probably going to be you as always. Do you reelize how many times Thomas has almost lookd at my sketch book. “Jean why are you drawing him so much” “because i want to Thomas fuck off” no hed actualy get realy concernd even more than he already is. I hide my sketch book under a floorboord under my bed dont tel anyone. Maybee Ill show him in a few weeks or something._

_My riting is probably reely horible so Im sorry if this is hard to reed I havent riten anything in so long the only thing Im reely confidint about is names. Wen I see you you can show me your undoutedly pristine hand riting and speling you fucking nerd._

_fuck you -Jean_

_Friday_

_Holyshit it’s fucking hot today I hope you stayd in the shade._ _Awg Agu_ _I dont fuckin know how to spel the month after july fuck me I probably sound like a litle kid riting or some shit. Im gona ask Thomas if he knows. Ok he just told me its Eugust but that looks rong too I dont think there are any Es in there. Thomas and me are inside completly baking oh my god you shuld see Cane shes going to die. Her puppys are so sad and the one with the litle brown patchs keeps wimpering the one you named Jeanne I think she misses you. Thomas keeps lookin over my sholder oh my god hes so rudeee`~——-____ HE JUST GRABED IT OUT OF MY HAND AND RED IT IM GONA KIL HIM ok I think im ending this leter here becaus Thomas is a rude bitch fuck you Thomas_

_-Jean_

_Saturday_

_We had cherch today and I tride not to cring the hole time. Thomas kept elbowing me because he knows I never pay atention anymore yea wel he shuldnt eether. I also askd Ymir how to spel her name so I can menshon her in the leters and what the fuck kind of speling is that to spel a name I wuld spel it EEMEER or something._

_People were talking about the hunt but they were only being like “oh it sucs that it faild” no one was thinking about another one and some people are actully starting to say you dont exist at all witch can be a very bad thing because we dont want people to start hunting north. But hey if they do they mite actully see the ocean. I remember you taut me how to spel ocean from that one time well your gona have to teach me how to spel everything else._

_I overherd Eren trying to convinc Armin to go to cherch agan and Im trying not to interject but I realy want to. Armin and me can make our own cherch abut ~~s~~_ ~~_nacke_ ~~ _snakes and cal it snake cherch you can be our daity itll be great_

_Dad was coffing a lot today and were al realy woried. Mom wont leave the house. She dosnt know what to do without him they dote on each other so much. I hope it al just clears up._

_-Jean_

_Sunday_

_I hung out with Eren and Mikasa today and then we met up with Connie and Sasha after. Remember that one time I got us kickd out of a stor becaus I nockd over a shelf? Well they remember us and they literaly came out of their stor to yel at us I meen how rude is that we werent doing anything rong. Ok we may have been being realy loud but we cant help that let kids have fun god dam. Eren gets realy flusterd when you pocke his neck its hilarios he always yels. I wish you culd meet him I think hed realy like you._

_Iv also been sneeking a puppy into bed with me becaus there so cute dont tel Thomas. I cant get that song you always sing out of my head._

_-Jean_

_Monday_

_Do you think people are just atomaticly rude in the morning becaus Im realy angry in the morning al the time is that normal? Like every noise I hear i culd tolorate any other time of the day but not in the morning. Also do you think dogs wil lern bad habits in just one weeck becaus Thomas fonde the puppy in my bed and hes pised but its not like the puppy wil want to sleep in beds forevor now? I showd him a drawing of the puppy and he thoght it was realy cool. I need to work up the curage to tel him everything, I know he wants to ask but he hasnt yet. Im still edjy arund him becaus of the hunt thing. Maybee I shuld hold off on teling him abut you. Lets talk abut it in two days ok?_

_-Jean_

_Tuesday_

_I know i said it already but Im realy sory that were back to only hanging out one day a weeck. Wen Dad gets better I can start visitng more but for now I need to get him money you know? Optimaly I wuld come see you every day if I culd I just never knew how much it botherd you and I shuldv. If I did i wuldv come to see you so much more often. I miss you a lot. Wen I see you tomorow Ill bring al your favorite stuf ok?_

_Sory this leter is so short I just cant think of what to say also my hand is cramping. See you tomorow._

_-Jean_


End file.
